


Bulb

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 23:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4540992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond makes the mistake of picking a bramble out of Lindir’s hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bulb

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Special thanks to imera for being my muse!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit/The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Elrond, of course, doesn’t particularly care which sheets are on his bed—there are none in Imladris beneath him. But when Lindir sees the “wrong” ones have been given to him, the poor attendant nearly falls to pieces, and he hurriedly fetches the new ones himself. Elrond is left to sit in the chair at his desk, where he usually has Lindir brush his hair at this stage of night. It’s no less vital than the sheets, but it’s an activity they both seem to cherish nonetheless. Elrond always enjoys the chance to have his beautiful assistant doting on him, though he isn’t quite sure what the ritual offers Lindir in return.

Still, as Lindir stretches the new sheets across Elrond’s bare mattress, the old ones folded in a pile at his feet, Lindir frets, “I will be there in a moment, my lord—I have not forgotten.” Elrond never doubted it. 

He merely sits back and watches Lindir’s lithe body bend over his bed, dark hair spilling down his shoulders. It shimmers chocolate in the moonlight through the balcony, silken, almost, except for one brief patch level with his neck. Taken aback, Elrond rises from his chair, looking closer, and indeed there’s a snag in Lindir’s otherwise immaculate appearance. It’s strange indeed for an elf so detail-oriented.

Without thinking much of it, Elrond takes the brush in his hand. He drifts closer, Lindir still busy with his task. Elrond has thought, here and there, of this: brushing Lindir’s fluid hair, though he imagines Lindir might fall to pieces over such an exchange. He’s very proper, though Elrond has never wielded his lordship over his subjects. He lifts the brush to Lindir’s hair with only good intentions. 

He brings it down, catching on the little knot, and Lindir’s head tugs back, mouth letting out a gasp. Elrond instantly stills the brush, seeing that it’s ensnared and not wishing to harm Lindir. He pulls it vertically out so as not to drag, but it’s too late. Lindir’s already straightened, going taut. He glances over his shoulder, eyebrows knit cutely together, and he asks, as though he can’t fathom it himself, “What... what are you doing, my lord...?”

“Nothing you do not do for me,” Elrond calmly responds, and he brings his hand up to cup Lindir’s face, gently turning it away to expose the knot again. He drops the brush lightly to the bed, using his fingers instead to lift the tangle of hair and see what’s happened. A tiny bramble’s twisted in, likely blown in from the garden. It’s woven in deep, but Elrond carefully chips away at it, going slowly for the sake of tugging Lindir’s scalp as little as possible. It takes a bit of work, his fingers sheathing far into the dark curtain, but he manages to pull the bramble away. Then he’s left to untwist what he can off the hair, trying to smooth it back out, bit by bit. Even when it seems finished, he combs his fingers down from Lindir’s scalp to the small of Lindir’s back, assuring that it’s clear. His fingers slide through easily, the soft brush of hair vaguely tantalizing along the bare skin of his forearms, the sleeves of his robe having fallen around his elbows during his ministrations. With one hand still buried in the alluring strands, Elrond reaches around his attendant for the brush.

But it causes his shoulder to press against Lindir’s, and he realizes suddenly that Lindir’s _trembling._ Elrond leaves the brush where it is, instead examining Lindir’s body. Lindir’s head is tilted back, his breathing shallow and rapid. When Elrond’s hand slips from Lindir’s back, Lindir lets out a quiet but erotic _moan_.

Elrond, surprised, takes Lindir’s shoulder in his hand, gently bidding Lindir to turn. Lindir obeys the silent command just as he always does. But when he’s fully turned, he throws his hands up to cover his face, his entire body shaking. Concerned, mostly for this fair creature’s well being but also that he may have overstepped in his affection, he asks, “Lindir, what is wrong?” When Lindir says nothing, merely hides his face and cowers, Elrond murmurs, “I apologize if I have embarrassed you.”

Lindir quickly shakes his head. His hands fall tentatively away, his face flushed red. Elrond nearly takes a step back in his shock. Lindir doesn’t look particularly worried or uncomfortable. 

He looks _aroused_. Desperation and _lust_ drenches his handsome features, his pupils dilated and his lids heavy, brows drawn together and lips parted, cheeks stained straight across and his thin form wracked with his breaths. Though it’s been a long time since Elrond’s bed was full, he still knows that look. And he doesn’t understand how it could’ve happened—Lindir was as he always is when he first arrived with better sheets. 

“I... I am sorry...” Lindir mumbles, nearly whimpers, voice hoarse and unsteady. “Having my... my lord’s fingers in my hair... and having _my hair pulled_...” A sudden tremor runs through Lindir, and he throws one hand over his mouth, his eyes squeezing shut. He shakes his head, then lowers his palm just enough to whine, “I am sorry. I must go.” And before Elrond can say a word, Lindir’s turned on his heel.

He nearly flies from the room. His hair dances out behind him in the wind of his own making, through the door and closing it again in the span of a heartbeat. Elrond’s left standing there, a pile of sheets on the floor and the brush abandoned on the bed, shock pinning him in place. 

Beneath that shock is sheer wonderment. He can’t help but marvel at such a pretty young thing clearly _wanting_ him, or at least in that moment. He’s wanted Lindir for years, so long that it’s become a mere part of his routine—seeing this bright star that he would hold for his own, if he could. But he always assumed he was too old, too different for Lindir, who has so many opportunities, to want him in return.

Clearly, he was mistaken. At the very least, there’s a possibility, and he feels foolish for holding himself back for too long. He’s grown complacent in his immortality, content to take the easy path that promises peace, when the fleeting admittance of truth could’ve, perhaps, yielded such delicious fruit. 

The sheets he can leave until the morning. The brush he returns to his desk, where it sits so very innocently, unaware of all it’s done. Elrond isn’t yet sure what to do with himself—he feels far too shaken to sleep.

He strolls to the bed anyway, prepared to at least find a table to put the rejected sheets on. He’s just reached them but has yet to bend down when the door to his quarters opens again. 

Lindir usually knocks and bows his head when he enters. Now he closes the door quickly behind himself and rushes forward, muttering, “Forgive me, my lord; I am a fool. I had forgotten your bed; I must finish making it. I am—”

He gets no more than that, because when he reaches the bed, Elrond takes hold of his wrist to still him. Lindir’s skin seems to burn beneath him, warm and still trembling. Elrond has to hook a finger under Lindir’s chin and tilt it up for Lindir to look at him. Elrond makes a soothing noise at the sight of Lindir’s panic, but Lindir still whispers, “I am sorry, my lord. I... have always...” he can’t seem to finish, instead poking out his tongue to wet his pink lips. They’re perilously close, and Elrond gently leans towards them, having no words that can say this any better. 

Lindir seems to have frozen in place. He stands still as Elrond presses into him, chastely kissing his parted lips. Elrond lingers only long enough to get a moment’s taste of that sweetness, warmth and softness. When he pulls away, a pained keening noise escapes Lindir’s throat. It confirms any doubts that might’ve stayed. Lindir doesn’t only want this; he _burns_ for it. It’s obvious in every portion of his body. Elrond finds himself quietly promising, “If you wish your hair brushed, or even pulled, you need only ask for it.” To demonstrate, he takes the hand from Lindir’s chin to stroke along Lindir’s cheek, petting back into his hair, brushing down before fisting in it and giving a short, sharp tug. Lindir gasps, and it twists into a lewd moan, his lashes fluttering against his cheek. For a moment, it seems like he’ll collapse.

Instead, he lunges forward suddenly, kissing Elrond so hard that Elrond’s mouth opens in surprise. An eager tongue quickly fills it.

The next thing he knows, he’s being pulled down onto the half-made bed, with Lindir mewling a desperate mix of, “I’m sorry,” and, “Please, _please_ ; I _love_ you,” beneath him. 

Clearly, he’ll have to reverse their roles more often.


End file.
